Chapter Nineteen #3
We waited as Lavinia closed the final few yards between us. “Well, that was quite an ordeal,” she exclaimed, fanning herself. “So many young women waiting in the antechamber! Girls, sure, but how about us mothers? Nowhere to sit and not a chair in sight. My knees were just screaming.”
Bouncing on her toes, she continued: “But it went well. It went well. Did it not go well, Beth?” She tossed a glance over her shoulder at the twins.
“I hope your girls fared as well as mine. The prince was not in the receiving room, but I do think the queen noticed them. Or at least noticed the pompons they wear in their hair, for I had the queen’s own coiffeur fashion them.
” She turned to survey the room. “Good heavens, what a scene. No expense spared; you can see for yourself.”
Addressing her daughters, she began to gesticulate toward the dancing. “Girls, girls. Beth. Take a turn around the room so that people might admire your figures.”
The twins glanced at one another, alarmed.
“Go on, go on. Beth, go!” Lavinia began a shooing motion with her fan, the feathers quivering.
Rosamund stepped forward, offering her arm to one of them. “Come with me. I’ll join you.” Bethia—Bethesda?—looked up at her gratefully.
Mathilde looked at the other twin, resigned. “Come along, then.”
The first twin—Bethesda, I had decided—leaned toward Rosie, nodding down at her dress. “Such delicate needlework. You must share your seamstress.”
“Why, thank you! I made—” Rosie caught my look and stopped herself short. “I am ever so appreciative.” She glanced back and forth between the twins. “Yours—both of yours—are … the height of refinement.”
Lavinia nodded, satisfied. But, a moment later, watching her daughters’ pompons disappear into the crowd, she leaned in to my side and whispered: “If you call them both Beth, you never need tell them apart.”
The dancing continued as the number of people in the ballroom swelled.
So many young women. So many best dresses and herb-filled baths and rouged cheeks and cinched waists and dance lessons.
A while later, when the prince had finished receiving, I could feel the hope in the room crescendo, every person waiting to see what would happen.
The room did not hush, or quiet, when he appeared, but rather increased in its intense energy, the music picking up speed, the awareness of every person finely tuned to his royal presence.
And so it was under the watchful eyes of an entire ball of people that the prince strode over to one of the banquettes and began to eat goose liver tart.
Sigrid went over to the dais and sat, the chairs around her quickly filling with courtiers and attendants and Otto Abensur, who had discarded his longsword for formalwear. They watched from the platform as the prince danced his first dance with a curly-haired girl I did not know.
“A cousin.” Lavinia sniffed. “And not one to worry about.”
For all my girls’ gawking, I myself had never seen a ball like this.
The dances in my hometown were held in the tavern hall and accompanied by a fiddler.
It was not just the marriage-eligible on their feet, but young women and old, stomping their latchets and hooking arms to folk dances our parents’ parents had danced as well.
And, in later years with Henry, and then Robert, I had seen plenty of fancy gatherings—dozens of dishes at each course of a meal, peacock served alongside an entire pig, women in velvet and fringe—but none that held a candle to a royal ball, none that could compete with floor-to-ceiling opulence, all-encompassing riches, and enough polished silver to sink a warship.
I took a glass of claret from the tray of a passing attendant, trying to find my daughters in the room.
Those dancing in the middle, performing a slower processional, blocked my view.
But then the music came to an end and the dance floor emptied for a break.
In the clearing, I was able to see Rosie and Mathilde, both holding porcelain cups of punch, standing in a small circle of women that also included the twins.
I couldn’t hear them, but I could see that Mathilde was talking and Rosie was laughing, and they looked comfortable, and it felt, in watching their ease from thirty feet away, that all we had sacrificed, all the stitches, and the apples, and the performing, just might have been worth it.
I’d wanted this for them, and here they were, looking resplendent and fitting into the room like a continuation of its sumptuous ornamentation.
I was so caught up in experiencing their pleasure from afar that I did not notice the prince approach Rosie until he was in front of her.
From his every gesture—an offer of his right hand, extending across the space between them—it was apparent that he had asked Rosie to dance.
This was confirmed when she placed her hand in his and he led her onto the dance floor.
I couldn’t see her face. I wondered if it mirrored mine.
Beside me, Lavinia clutched my upper arm. “My God,” she breathed. “The prince, Etheldreda, the prince has asked your Rosamund to dance.”
“I can see that,” I said, implacably. But inside, I was frothing over, glowing, uncontained.
“Your younger daughter, at that.”
I quickly glanced at Mathilde, who was now holding her sister’s saucer in addition to her own. But she did not appear upset.
“Rosamund is not wearing pompons.” Lavinia sounded concerned. “I wonder, do you think Prince Simeon prefers a more natural look?” She glanced over at her twins, whose oversized headdresses stood out from the crowd at the edge of the dance floor.
“I am sure the prince feels there is a time and place for pompons,” I assured her. I wanted to extract myself so I could watch all that happened. I wanted to see every little twitch of Simeon’s face, each intimation. I wanted to stand by and study—
Otto stepped in front of me. “Lady Tremaine.”
Beside me, Lavinia looked confused. “Bramley,” I corrected, eyeing her.
He did not look at Lavinia. “I must apologize again for my behavior the other day—”
“Not necessary,” I interrupted, for he was blocking my view of the prince, and the dance was about to start.
“It is,” he said. “Necessary.” He paused. “May I have the next dance?”
“Oh!” Lavinia said, voicing the same surprise I felt. I was glad I had not yet introduced her.
“Dance?” I echoed.
He extended his hand, and I looked down at it, and then back up at him.
The music had already begun. I could not leave the man with his hand extended in front of a room of people.
Still stiff from the initial surprise of his question, I put my hand into his, glove nestled against glove, and let him lead me to the edge of the dance floor.
Across the room, Mathilde still stood with two cups.
I caught her eye, and she looked back at me, astonished to see me amongst those preparing to dance.
I tried to show with a lift of my shoulders that it could not be helped.
The music began: a sarabande. The slow tempo of the solemn dance was suitable for Otto and I, but not what I would have chosen for Rosie.
I concentrated on remembering the steps.
As if doing the same, Otto did not speak for a good amount of time. Finally, he said: “I am afraid I not only lack practice in charm, but also in dancing.”
Over his shoulder, I could see Rosie and Simeon moving down the row of people, each of them with long arms extended in the shape of the neck of a swan.
Sigrid watched it all from a raised dais at the center of the room, face unreadable.
Heartened, I arched my eyebrows at Otto.
“I often think that dancing is nothing but a series of steps to learn. Memorization. But then I remember someone had to create those steps in the first place. That very first dance, I would wager, is real dancing.” My good spirits—Rosie, dancing with the prince!
—and perhaps the claret had loosened my tongue.
I found I was, momentarily at least, willing to overlook my dislike of Otto.
He shook his head. “If I were to design a new dance at this moment, no one in the room would consider dancing with me again.”
I laughed, in spite of myself. “Tell me,” I said, pausing for a moment when we moved apart. When the steps brought us back together, I continued. “Dancing aside, do you enjoy a ball?”
“I am here in official capacity.”
I was amused by his seriousness. “Are you dancing with me in official capacity?”
“No.” I thought I felt his hand tighten slightly on mine but could not be sure. “I am dancing with you as a guest.”
I tilted my head, looking at him more closely.
Otto as a dancing partner was an entirely different proposition than Otto as a royal bloodhound.
His leather boots had been replaced with fine ones shined to a high polish.
And despite his severe face, somewhat marred by a perpetual scowl, he cut a smart figure in formalwear.
With the exception of Moussa’s instruction during the girls’ dance lessons, it had been some time since I had been in such proximity to a man.
Our hands were gloved, but each touch had a certain kind of power, a muffled memory of a kind of dancing that had little to do with choreography.
I said: “That is unfortunate.”
He stiffened, taken aback.
“For to be two things at once—both a guest and an official—means you are never fully either. May I make a suggestion?” I did not wait for him to reply. “You should alternate and enjoy each more fully.”
He did not respond immediately. On the other side of the dancers, I saw Rosie executing her steps with ease, smiling at something Prince Simeon said into her ear.
Sigrid had disappeared from the dais. All around the edges of the dance floor eyes followed the prince and ignored me and I was glad of it.